


Terezi Pyrope and the Case of the Human Insurgency

by PunchRockgroin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunchRockgroin/pseuds/PunchRockgroin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humans! Their origins and motivations are unknown. With but a few splashes of make-up and a pair of fake horns, they can convincingly pass for trolls. And, worst of all, they have unexplainable psychic abilities that dwarf all but the mightiest of trolls. A quartet of these mysterious aliens are plotting to assassinate the Empress, and only the efforts of one tireless legislacerator (and her trusty pouncellor at her side) can hope to thwart them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terezi Pyrope and the Case of the Human Insurgency

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is me trying to write a Homestuck fanfic that isn't OH MY GOD EVERYONE'S DEAD for once. It's kind of somewhere between a police procedural, an investigative mystery, a spy vs. spy thriller, and a little bit of OH MY GOD EVERYONE'S DEAD for good measure. 
> 
> I think it turned out well enough, but I'll have to see what you guys think first! Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> EDIT: This fic is abandoned. Sorry.

 

 

 

 

10TH BILUNAR PERIGREE OF THE FOURTH BRIGHT SEASON EQUINOX

2201 HOURS

OUTPOST ASTREA, LEGISLACERATOR HIGH COMMAND ON NEW ALTERNIA

BRIEFING ROOM

“Legislacerators, welcome. I am Legislacerator First Class Shiron, Head Investigator of the Warehouse Delta-Alpha-Gamma incident.”

Shiron smells like electric blue candy- sharp and sour and artificial. Nothing genuine about him, just an amalgamation stitched together in a factory somewhere. His voice is a cold drone that he might think makes him sound intelligent, but really all you get out of it is the desire for a cup of sweet tea, a large-print book, and loose pajamas instead of this tight (but awesome) uniform.

You hear a click, and the first slide comes up. A sudden rush of flavor hits you in ecstatic succession- a lot of black, but even more astonishingly delectable cherry red. Even a little pink in there, like a pleasant cotton candy aftertaste. The muddled flavors focus themselves into a clear, crisp image.

An alien, hornless and tall and thin. Grey paint covers his face, but half of it has been smudged off to reveal light pink skin underneath. He’s been lightly brutalized, bleeding from one eye, his nose, and several long cuts on his chest. A bit of grape flavoring too- bruises. The alien has been forced to his knees and has a gag in his mouth, and the position of his arms suggests that they’re bound as well. He’s got some sort of dark protective eyewear on his face, but one of the lenses is cracked and destroyed.

His eyes are the most striking shade of crimson, and he’s boring into the camera with the one you can see.

“This,” says Shiron with a pause for dramatic effect, “is a human. Skin color, light pink. Planet of origin, unknown. Biology, unknown. Physical capabilities, mostly unknown. Intelligence...believed to be almost at troll levels.”

That shoots a murmur through the room, predictably. Imperial propaganda places the smartest alien in paradox space almost fit to lick the boot of the most intellectually stunted maroon blood. This alien doesn’t smell dumb to you. No, he smells like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Did we receive a gender, a name, anything?” one female voice asks.

“A bit, Legislacerator Aegina. The anatomy suggests that this specimen is a male. He gave a name after minor physical coercion: Snoop Dogg.” Shiron pauses again. “Either these aliens have some of the most inane naming conventions imaginable, or it’s an alias. We aren’t sure, but we’re looking into it. We’ve taken to calling Mister Dogg “Subject Red”, for reasons that will be explained momentarily.”

The next slide smells shockingly of olives, and it takes you a moment to gather why. This image is the human, Subject Red, goring a greenblooded guard with a thin, refined blade from behind. His makeup isn’t smudged this time- not a single inch of cotton-candy skin is showing. On his head is a pair of candycorn horns, small and disc-shaped. “This image is a still from the security camera on none other than New Alternia, in a Heavy Munitions warehouse.” Shiron points to the blade with an extending baton. “This blade is of Troll Japanese make, we’ve gathered. The soldier is wearing a Mark Twelve Exo Suit, built to withstand impacts as great as but not exceeding a hard kick in the chest from a musclebeast. He was one of nine soldiers killed by Subject Red before we were capable of subduing him.

“How many injured, sir?” you ask.

Shiron smiles wanly. “So, the great Terezi Pyrope decides to grace us with a quartet of words from her noise-pumper. Zero injured, Legislacerator. Subject Red seems to prefer lethal blows. Only a trio of psiioniics working in tandem was able to restrain him for several moments, which allowed the guards to swarm and subdue him more permanently.”

You respond to Shiron’s passive-aggression with your usual- a long, coiled smile. “And the horns?”

“Fake, of course, and in evidence. They’re made of some sort of craft foam and glued to a black headband. More information as it comes.”

“Sir,” says Aegina, “what was the reasoning behind this rampage?”

Shiron’s baton goes to a brown satchel at Mister Dogg’s feet. “There were forty-two pounds of high explosive at his feet. We believe he intended to level the warehouse, and he certainly had the tools for it. Something made him change his mind, and he decided to kill a bunch of trolls. Interrogation yielded no results, however.”

That was rare. The Legislacerators almost never failed to extract a confession from a prisoner, particularly not one as high-value as a mass-murdering terrorist. “He doesn’t smell horribly injured!” you comment. “Were they coddling him in whatever prisonblock he was in?”

“No,” says Shiron. “After only forty-five minutes in our custody, the order came down to execute the prisoner immediately. _The Strongarm_ , a Ruffiannihilator assault vessel, had docked at Outpost Draconis to carry out the deed. No trial, no courtblock, no confession. Immediate summary execution.”

Silence. Hard, cold, empty silence. “But...” says Aegina frustratedly, “but that order could only come from-”

“Her Imperious Condescension herself, yes.” Shiron grins. “Caught your attention, have I?”

No, Shiron, you’ve done no such thing. It’s the alien with the striking cherry eyes and the astounding combat prowess that’s captured the attention of this room full of Legislacerators. “He escaped, didn’t he?” you say quietly.

You know this. There isn’t a flicker of doubt that the cherry-eyed alien still draws breath. You don’t know how you know, but you just _do_.

“Not on his own.” Shiron flips to the next slide, a video file. It begins to play at half speed.

A stout, muscular figure bathed in licorice drops from above and plants a foot into the mouth of one of the guards on either side of Mister Dogg. The Ruffiannihilator falls back, blue blood spurting from between his fingers. Before the other guard can react, the figure materializes a tremendous warhammer and delivers it into his midsection. The guard’s chest compresses, and he goes down too.

The figure looks up, at the camera. Only the top half of his head is uncovered- eyes a shocking electric blue behind thick-rimmed glasses. A tall, thick tuft of black hair, cotton candy skin the same shade as the unsmudged bits of Mister Dogg. His tight outfit shows an impressive musculature, far denser and more powerful than Subject Red.

“Subject Blue.” Shiron’s voice is light and dangerous. “Also presumed to be male. Only this one floored Ruffiannihilators without any trouble. Hammer of unknown make.” The video resumes, and Mister Electric Blue begins undoing his fellow human’s restraints. A pair of humans drop from the roof- the first short and curvaceous, long hair roiling down to her waist and wide eyes like sour apples, the latter tall and slender, with short and neat hair and frightfully calm grape eyes. Like Blue, their mouths and noses are obscured by black shawls.

“Females. Subject Green and Subject Purple. The former with a rifle of unknown make, and the latter...”

While Green fires a swift, precise barrage of shots, Subject Purple opens fire on offscreen targets with what appear to be black-and-purple knitting needles. Long tendrils of void twist from the ends of the needles, like somebody tore a hole in the footage. “What became of those she was firing on?” you ask.

“We’re still trying to put together the remains. We believe three Ruffiannihilators were in the path of these...whatever these are. We found a big piece that might be a foot, though, so it could have been as many as four until we checked the manifest from _The Strongarm_. Subject Green, meanwhile, killed four in four shots, each hitting the target square in the forehead.” Shiron sighs. “Eight Ruffiannihilators in total killed.”

“Thanks for spoiling what’ll happen to those two!” you exclaim. Shiron grimaces and continues airing the footage. The troll who took four of Subject Blue’s knuckles up his nose is on his feet, throwing himself at the man who shattered his dark glasses. They lock arms and wrestle briefly, before Blue lifts the guard off his feet and tosses him like a rag doll into the far wall. The massively muscled Ruffiannihilator smashes through the wall and disappears from view, only his thick calves still in view.

“That was Ruffiannihilator Equius Zahhak, a thirteenth level Atlas-class strength. In the Third Battle of Dahaka Valley, he lifted an opposing troop carrier designed for a hundred twenty enemy footsoldiers and crushed it into a ball of scrap. The armor he was wearing weighed thirty-six hundred pounds. The wall he hit was six inches of reinforced steel.”

Your nostrils flare in surprise. You haven’t heard that name in nearly two sweeps now. “Is Equ- what is Ruffiannihilator Zahhak’s status?”

Shiron raises an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t press the point. “Broken arm, shattered ribs, thinkpan contusion. We plan to interview him as soon as he’s out of surgery. We’d ask this other one, Ruffiannihilator Mainyu, but..”

Subject Red is on his feet, towering over his three comrades. Subject Green hands him another blade, the steel gleaming in the room’s dim light. The steel is clean and clear like a mirror, but only instants later it’s sullied by Mainyu’s blood as Red opens the guard from nose to groin.

The four aliens gather, arms on one another’s shoulders. All four look directly at the camera- directly at you. Each raises a fist and then their center finger, a universal gesture with a universal meaning.

Then they flew away.

You blanch at the screen confusedly. One moment the aliens were flipping you off, the next they’re whisked away like someone pulled them up by invisible strings. “Um...” says a deep voice slowly. “What just happened?”

Shiron’s dramatic pause is particularly lengthy this time. “We have absolutely no idea. Somehow, the humans fled the scene by air. Scouts reported that they tracked the trajectory of them to Psidon City.”

For the umpteenth time, the room is shocked into silence. Psidon City is the de facto Capital of the entire Empire, the single largest permanent hivestem anywhere. It’s also the site of countless members of the Imperial upper-crust: the Archeradicator marksmanship competitions, the Grand Legislacerator’s Sweeply Judicial Review, SubJugCon, and a dozen more massive gatherings. The largest, of course, is the Strategouger Prostration. Every branch of the fleet sends its finest as a delegation to report their conquests and pledge their allegiance to none other than the Empress herself. Being a member of a delegation is one of the highest honors _any_ troll can be privy to.

And, hypothetically, if the palace that houses the event were to be destroyed, the entire Empire may very well fall apart.

“Two...weeks...until...the Prostration.” Shiron’s dramatic pauses are endemic now- each word is sandwiched between a pair of them. “Find them. Catch them. Kill them. Go.”

There’s a clatter as everyone in the meeting room gathers their papers and heads out. You grope around for your cane, accidentally squeeze the bulge of Legislacerator Gliese, purposefully squeeze the bulge of Legislacerator Gliese, then find your walking stick and are on your way out.

This is big. No, this is bigger than big. Four alien terrorists are in the heart of the Empire, and they’re almost certainly here on a mission to kill the Empress herself. You find them and it’ll be you on your hands and knees before Empress Peixes herself. You aren’t even fifteen solar sweeps yet, you’d be the youngest troll ever to be part of the Legislacerator Delegation.

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you’re going to bring the alien with cherry-red eyes to justice.

 

 

 

 

* * *

11TH BILUNAR PERIGREE OF THE FOURTH BRIGHT SEASON EQUINOX

2018 HOURS

OUTPOST ASTREA, LEGISLACERATOR HIGH COMMAND ON NEW ALTERNIA

LEGISLACERATOR PYROPE'S OFFICE

One hundred sixty eight. That’s how many times you’ve watched five minute footage loop from the security camera at Outpost Draconis. One-sixty-eight times five...oh hell.

“Nepeta!” you shout. “How long have I been in here?”

There’s a rustling outside as your assault instant wakes up from her nap. “What was the question?”

“How long have I been inside my office?” There aren’t any clocks in here and you purposefully disabled the one on your husktop. It makes your frequent allnighters a bit easier.

“Uh..twenty-two meowurs, eighteen minutes!” Nepeta makes a stiff, sleepy noise that you’ve come to associate with her stretching by arching her back. “I’ll go make you some chameowmile.”

“That’d be divine.” You sit back in your chair, holding your head in your hands. You don’t know how much longer you can do this. You haven’t learned anything in your last forty viewings, you don’t think.

The first several minutes of the clip are astonishingly boring. Snoop Dogg is brought in the room, forced to his knees. Legislacerator Axones argues with Ruffiannihilator Zahhak, and the transcript of Axones’ debriefing says he was protesting the execution of the prisoner before a thorough interrogation could be held. Then, probably around the part that Zahhak lifted Axones three feet off the ground by his collar, he was told that he had ten seconds to leave the room OR he would be the next one to be executed.

Axones leaves, and Zahhak stands at attention, waiting for the Executioner to arrive for ninety-three seconds. Executioner Defner was one of the three trolls turned into chunky blueberry paste by Subject Purple. The rescue is the clip’s last forty seconds, and you’ve combed every microsecond of those forty for every fact you could possibly gather.

The video from the warehouse is even less helpful. Mister Dogg appears on only one piece of footage, a brief rampage through the guard room before he’s forcefully restrained and swarmed. All that footage tells you is that he’s damned good with that sword- the blade flies so fast your nose can barely follow it as it takes off heads and limbs like they weren’t encased in armor. Exhilarating as the fight may be, there’s no information to be gleaned from it. It only took you fourteen watches to be certain of that.

Nepeta walks in, her olive-green robe fluttering. It’s not too different from yours in design, other than the color scheme and the giant nametag she’s mandated to wear so no one will mistake her for a Legislacerator. In her hands is an unnecessarily intricate tray, and on it is a cat-themed tea pot, two cups, and a small bowl of red gushers. One of Nepeta’s primary duties is to purchase packs of gushers and eat all the ones that aren’t red, and she does her job with an admirable quiet dignity.

“Nepeta, I love you,” you say and immediately pop one of the sickeningly sweet candies in your mouth.

“I love you too, your tyranny!” Taking a seat on the opposite side of your desk, your Assaultistant flutters her eyelashes at you. “I’d hazard that you’re the best boss pawlanetside!”

You raise an eyebrow suspiciously at your faithful Assaultistant. “What do you want?”

“A purrsonal day!” she chirps. “A furiend of mine is in sick bay, and I want to go see him. Can I? Can I?”

“I’ll make you a deal, pouncellor.” Pouncellor used to be what Nepeta called herself when you roleplayed as kids. Now, it’s a facetiously endearing nickname. Your relationship with Nepeta is scientifically engineered to be as adorable as physically possible, mostly to mess with the heads of your coworkers. “You can have your day off if you let me bounce my notes off you now and then work overtime every day until the Prostration.”

Nepeta winces and sticks her tongue out at you. “Bluuuuuurg! If I wasn’t already going to do both of those things, I’d rescind your crowning as the best boss in all the Empurr.” Nepeta was an excellent choice for your Assaultistant. You had met plenty of trolls in your time, but none but Nepeta could brew a great cup of tea, listen carefully to your judicial musings, rip would-be assassins limb from limb, _and_ indulge your interminable sweet tooth.

She scooches in close and hovers over your head. “So play the video already!”

You do so. “Okay, let me just skip to the section that isn’t irrelevant moobeastshit..."

“No, I wanna watch this part too!” Nepeta is a captive audience for Ruffiannihilator Zahhak silently weathering what you strongly believe to be a barrage of criticisms and profanities from Legislacerator Axones. She straight-up starts applauding when he lifts Axones in the air. You’ve never seen anyone so enthralled by security footage before.

All throughout the video, for the entire duration until the very last couple seconds, Snoop Dogg’s one visible eye is boring a hole in the camera. Nepeta gasps loudly when the other humans come in from above and hisses in anger when Equius goes through the wall. The video ends, and Nepeta pauses to take a drink of her tea. “So what are your notes, your tyranny?”

You breathe deeply of the aromas of the teacup before downing the entire thing. Five spoonfuls of sugar, just as you like it. “Well, for starters, this bit right here.” You rewind to the part where Subject Blue floors both Zahhak and Mainyu. “Nonlethal force, did you notice? Guy with that much strength, he could have easily landed fatal blows. He didn’t, though.”

“But all the others killed someone! So he’s a bit diffurent, then?”

“I think so. Compare him to this one right here, Subject Purple.” Her knitting needles fire off rapid shots into offscreen. “Thirteen shots fired at three trolls. Seems a bit unnecessary, don’t you think? Especially when you compare it to the precision of the other Subjects. This one right here has a vendetta. To her, it’s personal.” You study the slender, long-legged subject. There’s something dissonant about her eyes- no emotion touches them. She isn’t furious, or even determined. It’s the same look you might expect from someone who had been reading a mildly-interesting book for several hours straight.

“So one is nice, the other’s a bit furrious. I getcha.” Nepeta chews on her bottom lip. “What about this one, Subject Green?”

“Miss Appleberry Assault’s uniform is slightly different than the others!” you exclaim. “It took me thirty-something watches to notice that there’s a long tear on the stomach of her uniform.”

Nepeta squints. “I don’t see anything.”

The fabric on her midsection is a few shades lighter, a very dark grey instead of the obsidian of the rest of the outfit. “The uniforms are layered,” you explain. “Which implies they’re not just uniforms, but also some type of armor as well.”

All of that, though, is secondary to the real star of the video- Mister Cherryred himself. When he takes the blade from Subject Green, you pause the video and move it ahead frame by frame.

For four straight frames, he is completely invisible. “I don’t know how he did this,” you say excitedly. “I think these humans have some kind of psychic powers of their own. Either he’s invisible, or he’s moving too fast for the camera to follow, but one frame he’s here, the next frame he’s there, and there isn’t anything in between. I checked on the other video of him in the warehouse, he uses this same technique almost a dozen times.”

Nepeta nods, her attention held raptly. “So that’s why they’re so tough? Psychic powers?”

“Either that or he’s just ludicrously quick. I’m leaning towards psychic powers, though, and here’s why.” You fastforward to the end of the video clip, when the humans make their rude gesture (Nepeta gasps in mock affrontedness) and take off. “Look at Blueberry’s feet. He bends and leaps just before take-off, and he’s the first one off the ground.”

“That’d explain how they got in,” muses your pouncellor, who pours you a second cup of tea. “So he can fly?”

“Yep!” You watch her put five spoonfuls of sugar in your chamomile and you triumphantly drink it. “And...that’s about all I’ve got. I need more than this tape.”

“So what’re our leads?” Nepeta puts her hands up and starts counting. “There’s that grey makeup, they have to get it somewhere. Same thing with the fake horns. The bullets in the heads of those that Subject Green shot, the remains of the ones Subject Purple shot...”

“Fingerprints from Ruffiannihilator Zahhak’s armor,” you add. “And Ruffiannihilator Zahhak himself...but every Legislacerator from here to the Frontier is going to be crowding to see him.”

“Ah, haven’t you furgotten?” Nepeta taps her head twice. “You’re in the company of his grubhood meowrail. I’ll get you that meeting, your tyranny!”

“Y’see, Leijon? This is why I pay you the big boonbucks.”

“That, and my purrfect tea-brewing skills.” Nepeta makes you a third cup.

You put the tea in your specibus. “For later, during our victory celebration.” You stand up and grasp the head of your dragonhead cane. “Alright, let’s get moving. We have justice to serve.”

 

* * *

11TH BILUNAR PERIGREE OF THE FOURTH BRIGHT SEASON EQUINOX

2341 HOURS

SERPENTARIUS SICKBLOCK

TRAUMA WARD

The Mediconquerors are one of the most spit-on branches of the fleet, mostly because their primary duty is the exact opposite of the more respectable task of murder. As such, you’re always a bit careful around them- one doesn’t successfully perform an emergency pumpbiscuitectomy with shrapnel exploding on every side of them without developing a certain kind of take-no-shit approach to things.

This particular one, Mediconqueror Cheleb, speaks very quickly and impatiently, almost daring you to ask him to repeat anything he says. You listen to his rapid fire instructions- the patient has Legislacerators lined up around his sickblock three times over, and the last three to interrogate Zahhak have all received promises from him that once he is well, he will personally hunt them down for disturbing his rest.

“I don’t have to worry about that,” you say with your trademark broad grin. “I have a secret weapawn- I mean weapon.”

“Tell that to the forty-one others legies outside,” Cheleb says, straightening his lime-green and white lab coat. “I have a great deal of work to do, so unless you have something to actually say, don’t trouble me.”

“Yes, I actually do. First, do you have a card I can fill out reporting how rude you are?”

“You can write it on my boot before I shove it up your narrow ass,” he growls.

You whip your cane up, swinging it with disturbing velocity before stopping it half an inch short of his narrow neck. “You really should consider working on your manner,” you say calmly. “I could get rid of those other Legislacerators, you know. All you have to do is let me in before them.”

Glaring at the stick coldly, Cheleb only grants you half a glance. “I don’t respond to threats, Legislacerator Pyrope, in any way you’d find favorable. I’m aware you’re blind, but I had no idea you were this stunningly dense. One last opportunity to go away.”

“Assaultistant Leijon, remind me again of my personal penalty for rudeness.”

Your pouncellor pipes up. “A senseless drubbing, of course!”

“And the official punishment for the obstruction of justice?”

“Death, what else?”

“I’m prepared to combine the two for our mutual convenience, Mediconqueror Cheleb. Assaultistant Leijon, will you act as my witness and my aide in issuing the sentence?”

“Do you have to ask?” Nepeta’s mouth curls into her own carefully-crafted threatening grin- a small, coy cat smile. Her long blue claws glisten with a promise of mayhem.

Cheleb gets the message. “If I let you in before the others, your fellow Legislacerators will quite literally lynch me.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to put distance between yourself and them before they get wise to what you’re up to.” You cackle at the mental image of an angry mob of your fellow trolls of the law conducting a manhunt for Cheleb in his own hospital. “Or you can take your chances with Leijon and me. Your choice, Mediconqueror.”

Two and a half minutes later, you’re in the sickblock of one Equius Zahhak. He’s currently under interrogation by a longhaired female Legislacerator with a sallow, sunken face and a hungry look in her blue eyes. Legislacerator Aegina. “Pyrope,” she says with undisguised loathing. “I’m not finished here. Go wait in the hall with the rest of the bananabeasts.”

“Objection,” you answer without breaking stride. “I have a decisive witness. Ruffiannhilator Zahhak, do you recognize the flabbergastingly beautiful Legislacerator who has just entered your presence and her unforgettably lovely assistant?”

Equius is submerged to his neck in a specially-designed recuperacon to accommodate his astonishing size- he’s grown to seven and a half feet and over four hundred pounds of hard, thick slabs of muscle. Only his bullish neck and scarred, square features are visible above the slime. He’s been deprived of the blue-and-black helmet he wore in the video tape, and instead you get to see his eyes with the enormous bags underneath. Those slow, sad eyes open wide in shock when he sees you comrade. “Nepeta,” he says softly.

“You know her?” asks Aegina in bewildered confusion, the furious realization that she’s been outmaneuvered slowly dawning on her.

“Please leave.” Zahhak’s voice is now sharp, and it physically pierces Aegina’s defense. “And tell every Legislacerator in the hall that I have the most exceptional lack of interest in speaking to any of them. They would be behooved to perform a mass exodus to elsewhere, because Legislacerator Pyrope is the only one that I intend to be interrogated by.”

“You don’t get to choose-” Aegina begins hotly.

“Legislacerator Aegina!” you interrupt. “I already made one death threat to get in this room. Do I have to make a second? Now get out.”

Aegina glares at you, her bony hand on her sword’s hilt. You patiently wait for her to remember the result of your last spar. It takes her a few seconds, but at that point it doesn’t take her much longer to vacate the room.

Nepeta has run over to Equius. “Are you alright? How have you been? Why haven’t you been answering my chats? Are you hurt? How’s that girl you had your eye on? When will you be let out? Why are you quivering?”

Equius lets a small smile creep onto his stony face. “Yes, fine, I was on mission and under forced radio silence, I’ll be fine, she’s dead, in another week, and I had a particular distaste for Legislacerator Aegina and extremely enjoyed what just transpired.”

You walk over to the reunited moirails. “I’d loathe to interrupt such an astoundingly touching moment, but we have work to do. Nepeta, that personal day I promised you starts the minute I leave this room, so can you two hold off for a minute?”

Equius nods, his forehead increasingly damp. “Yes, you’re right Legislacerator. You look well.”

“Pity I can’t say the same about you, for _at least_ two reasons.” You cackle at your own cleverness, as you often do. “Like every other lawtroll planetside, I’m investigating the terrorists who did this to you. I have some questions for you, do you think you can answer them?”

“Why not? I’ve already replied to them twenty-four times already.”

“Do you remember the names of those twenty-four, by the way? I need to know who my competition is,” you explain when Equius raises a bushy eyebrow at you. “Ah, but that can wait, can’t it? Let’s see, where to begin...I suppose you might as well give me an account of the events to begin.”

“Nothing either of us don’t already know,” he booms. “I was aboard _The Strongarm_ when we were given word directly from Imperial Command to head to Outpost Draconis and immediately execute a prisoner. Our captain told us that the Empress wanted this terrorist killed as soon as possible, but that she wanted to avoid stepping on any Legislacerator toes in the process. Thus, we were sent in. There was an excessive amount of shouting and bustle before we were able to shepherd the Legislacerators out of the room to execute the prisoner. Then the ceiling broke, and the next thing I knew I had a black boot embedded into my jaw.” Equius shows his teeth. “You likely cannot tell, but he knocked two out when he did that. I got up as quickly as I could and attacked the nearest target, the fellow who cost me two more of my canids. We grappled for an intermittence before I realized that I was hopelessly outmatched. He lifted me and threw me through a wall. I passed out and woke up here.”

You nod pensively. None of that was even remotely new information. “Zahhak, I need a lead of some sort. Did the prisoner say anything to you?”

“No, not a single word. Reportedly, he hadn’t made a single sound all night, except for when he gave his name and species.” Equius pauses. “It’s an alias, by the way.”

“Hmm?”

“An alias. Troll Snoop Dogg is one of our species’ most revered and respected slam poets.” He sniffs haughtily, pleased that he knew something you didn’t. “It’s some sort of joke, but I don’t get it. Perhaps he was calling his rampage at the warehouse a work of art?”

“Maybe...how about during the escape? Did any of the humans say anything?”

Equius mulls this over for a moment. “Yes, the one who knocked me on my posterior twice shouted ‘go, go, go’ shortly before his comrades dropped in. I believe he barked several orders, in fact.”

The movement of the mouths behind the masks is a motion far too subtle for your nose to pick up, and you wouldn’t have known what they were saying anyways, since the tape lacked audio. “So he was running the show, then? That’s something, I suppose, but not much. It certainly doesn’t bring me any closer to a lead on their location or motivations.”

“I fear I cannot help you with that,” the Ruffiannihilator says with a bow of his enormous head. “They said very little, and I was only in their presence for a matter of moments. Ruffiannihilator Mainyu was part of the group that escorted the prisoner from his cell to the executionblock, perhaps he knew something I didn’t.”

You sigh. Smells like Zahhak’s a dead end. “Unless he shared that knowledge with you, it really does me no good. Mainyu’s head has been reduced to a thick, lumpy blueberry cream. Thanks for your time, Equius, I’ll try to get the other lawtrolls to give you and the meowrail time to catch up.”

You’re halfway to the door before Equius barks “WAIT” so loudly that you hear Nepeta leap back and hiss in surprise. You turn to face him, your mouth a question mark.

“Pardon?”

“I recall something,” he says in his normal, low voice. “Mainyu complained to me that he got some of the alien’s makeup on his hand. He said it wouldn’t come off, no matter how much he rubbed his fingers together.”

You consider this for a moment. No sample of the makeup has been recovered at this time- all the bits smeared off in the battle at the warehouse were contaminated by the gallons of troll blood spilled by Subject Red. An untainted sample could very well lead you straight to the humans. “Ruffiannihilator, you may have just turned me into the top Legislacerator in all the Empire.” Grinning, you sprint to the door. “Nepeta, I’ll see you the evening after next. I’ve got to get to Outpost Draconis before someone fucks up the sample.”

“Bye, your tyranny!” Nepeta chirps. “Good luck!" 

 

* * *

12TH BILUNAR PERIGREE OF THE FOURTH BRIGHT SEASON EQUINOX

0203 HOURS

OUTPOST DRACONIS

EXECUTION BLOCK

You know there’s something wrong the very minute you step inside Outpost Draconis.

There’s a sickly sweet scent in the air- sticky and fruity and orange and horrifying. You love sweets several magnitudes more than the next troll, but this is a little too much. Also, the entrance has two trolls dead in the corridor. You’re pretty sure they’re trolls, at least- they’ve been bludgeoned so badly that they look more like piles of meat with bones jutting out.

Great. Subjugglators are here at _your_ crime scene.

The rivalry between the church and the law goes back eons. The Legislacerators believe that criminals should be brought to justice, that evidence should be meticulously gathered, that professionalism is the most important trait a lawtroll can possess.

The Subjugglators, meanwhile, like to break things.

You cross the banana-and-black “CRIME SCENE- EATING EVIDENCE IS A CAPITAL OFFENSE” crime tape and check out the scene. The place is awash with heralds of the mirthful messiahs, alright- throwing pies in one another’s faces, honking obnoxiously loud horns, beating each other to death, the usual. The Legislacerators around are very prudently giving them wide berths.

Subject Purple’s handiwork is the first piece of evidence for you to smell. Three trolls turned into liquid by those knitting needles of hers, and you haven’t got much to show for it. You sniff the air around the liquidated corpses, and the residual energy smells like nothing. It’s not that it doesn’t smell, it’s that it literally smells like nothingness. The residual of an infinitely empty void, a singularity of not, permeates this area. It’s giving you a strong sense of ennui and also making you a bit queasy. Better to move on.

You deftly maneuver around a part of Subjugglators telling each other knock knock jokes and head for Subject Green’s four victims. This is a much cleaner area- none of these three even bled more than a bit. Each shot is squarely planted into the Ruffiannihilator’s thinkpan, shattering his helmet and killing him instantaneously. This sort of marksmanship is nearly unheard of- some legendary Archeradicators might be able to rival pinpoint accuracy at high speed like this, but it’s almost certain that no living troll could replicate this feat.

Three of the bullets already appear to have been pried out, leaking out a thin faucet of blueberry blood. The fourth troll is undisturbed, but Subjugglators are all over him. No dice in getting a better smell, then.

That’s okay, you know what you’re here for- Ruffiannihilator Mainyu, whose bloody corpse is just waiting for you. He died with confusion in his eyes- not clear what was going on or why he was on the ground or why he couldn’t breathe. There’s only one Subjugglator inspecting him but he’s horribly familiar.

“Subjugglator Makara,” you say with a broad smile. “Gamzee, it’s me. Terezi.”

The lanky troll’s eyes slowly pivot towards you. His face is sunken and greasy, like he hasn’t slept in days or weeks. Those eyes, though, are free of any lethargy. They’re cold, hungry, ruthless eyes. Eyes that will eat you alive.

“Terezi motherfucking Pyrope!” he exclaims good-naturedly. “Shit, girl, it’s been half a fucking epoch since I last laid eyes on you. The fuck are you doing at this crime scene, little legie? Ain’t you got some Mediconqueror evac vehicle to chase?”

“Already did that, and it led me here,” you answer. “It looks like I took too long, though, because now there’s going to be faygo in every conceivable bit of environmental sampling. The techies aren’t going to be happy.”

“You think I give half a cold fuck what a bunch of pasty science-worshippers think?” Gamzee’s voice is suddenly harsh, cold, and way too loud. “The Mirthful Messiah’s led me and my madman posse to this here outpost, and we’re conducting our own motherfucking investigation of these fucking abominations. Got an issue, you can take it up with the bottom of my foot and the business end of my club.”

“Easy, I’m not looking for a fight!” You raise your hands in a gesture of mock surrender. Better to be passive when it comes to these clown-faced psychos, you’ve found. They’ll kill you for no reason at all, true, but they’re more likely to do it if you say one of their many arbitrary trigger words. You once had to defend yourself against a hatchet-wielding highblood who was launched into a murderous frenzy by the mention of magnets. “I don’t want to pounce on anything that’s church property. But there’s plenty of evidence to go around, surely you don’t need all of that.”

Gamzee stares at you. “Shit, girl, I’ve already got a tentload of lawtrolls running interference on my scene. It’s putting me in a rude mood.” His voice, briefly back to the usual noncommittal looseness, is once again icy and laser-precise. “I’ve had just about enough with motherfucking sharing. Tell me something worth knowing and maybe I’ll let you partake, otherwise you need to get the fuck out of my face.”

“I’ve got something worth knowing,” you say calmly. “Mainyu’s got some of the human’s make-up on his fingers.”

He looks and you smell down at the hands of the deceased Ruffiannihilator, both of which are clenched into iron fists. “Pry ‘em open, we got ourselves a lead.” Gamzee smiles manically. “That’s what I like to fucking hear.”

You let the Subjugglator do the opening- he’s far stronger than you, after all. After a couple minutes of muttered curses, Gamzee manages to open Mainyu’s palm, revealing grey smudges on his thumb and forefinger. “So let’s split it,” you say cheerily. “You take one finger, I take the other.”

“Or I take both,” Makara replies peevishly. “And there ain’t shit you can do about that.”

“You could! But that would be extremely rude of you.” You reach into your sylladex and pull out the tea Nepeta brewed for you. “Almost as rude as, say, spilling my drink all over valuable evidence. Much as I love it, nothing contaminates evidence samples quite as effectively as sugar. I take my tea with five.”

Gamzee rears up and delivers a looming death stare. “You take my evidence, I take your head,” he says simply.

“Maybe. Or maybe I take yours.” You show your teeth, refusing to be intimidated. “Either we split the evidence, or neither of us gets it and at least one of us dies here. It’s up to you, Gamzee. What’s it going to be, highblood?”

Gamzee growls, but stands aside. Two minutes later, you finish sawing off Mainyu’s thumb with your cane sword. Placing it in an evidence bag, you wave goodbye to Gamzee.

“Nice smelling you again!” you exclaim. “Catch you around, Makara!”

“Hold the motherfuck on.” His long, bony arm comes out to block you. “You ain’t catching those blasphemous offspecies fucks before this clown gets his makeup-covered hands on them. Ya hear me, Pyrope? I see you on their trail again, I’m punishing you for obstructing justice. Y’all know what the punishment for that is.”

“Looking forward to you trying.” Ducking under Gamzee’s arm, you head for the door out of the crime scene. You can't get away from these guys fast enough.

 

* * *

 

 

12TH BILUNAR PERIGREE OF THE FOURTH BRIGHT SEASON EQUINOX

0545 HOURS

PSIDON CITY SHUTTLE 199

2,987 FEET ABOVE PSIDON CITY

With the blood safe in the hands of the boys at the lab, you decide to take a break. You only need a few hours of sleep to function, but you’ve been awake for thirty-eight hours, powered solely by your investigative instincts and stupidly large amounts of sugar.

You have an apartment in the city. It’s nothing special, because you’re in there maybe thirty hours of the week. You don’t make Legislacerator First Class before you turn fifteen on a mere hundred hour work week.

You sit in the flying shuttle to your high rise quietly, going over the case in your head. The vehicle is crammed from wall to oozing wall with trolls of every caste, no doubt because of the upcoming Prostration. In addition to being a ritual of massive nationalistic and historical importance, The Prostration’s just damn good fun. A gladiator’s arena, live sapient aliens to hunt, cotton candy...everything a troll could want.

You could never hope for a ticket without being a member of a Delegation, though. Getting one requires standing in line for hours and hours, and every one of your waking moments is devoted to your work. You were sorely tempted to send Nepeta to get one in your place, but that’d be a hideous disregard for protocol and you could get brought up on disciplinary charges.

Not that it stopped every other Legislacerator in your office from doing just that with their respective Assaultistants.

You flip through the case file and shut it. Every word in here has been committed to memory. Smells are a lot simpler to remember than words, and what was once a document that was utterly pungent with the smell of new information now has the aroma of a stale cracker.

“Interesting read?” Asks a voice sitting across the train from you. You turn upwards to find a female troll wearing a long black hood. It obscures her whole body, save for her face, which is downcast.

Something about this troll smells a bit wrong. You smirk casually at her. “Not anymore. It’s not the whole story, just the first chapter.”

“And the second is you bringing the dastardly criminal to justice?”

“No, no! The second is the thrilling chase, the third is the dramatic hostage scenario, the fourth is the cathartic capture, the fifth is the corrupt courtblock, and the sixth is me beating the odds and bringing the dastardly criminal to justice.” You calmly slip the folder into your bag. “I won’t insult your intelligence by asking how you knew it was a case file. It has ‘CLASSIFIED’ in big red block letters on the front and I’m in Legislacerator garb. Not that tough to guess. So I guess we can skip the game of meowbeast and squeakbeast and skip straight to: hi human.”

The “troll” sticks her head up and lets down her hood. Subject Purple: a thin, intelligent face with full lips and small eyes. Her hair is black, her skin is grey, a pair of sharp horns protrude from her head, and her eyes are covered in contact lenses, but it’s definitely her. “Very impressive,” she says calmly. “I didn’t think you’d get me so quickly. What gave me away?”

“You smell wrong,” you say, gripping your cane tightly and taking stock of your surroundings. The shuttle is packed with trolls, which will make fighting difficult. You don’t think Purple will hesitate to blow a hole through the uninvolved passengers if it means getting to you. That means you have to keep her talking. “Trolls have a really distinct odor! You can never totally get rid of it- every troll still smells a little bit like the hive they grew up in and the battleship they spent their first tours of duty in. You smell like nothing I’ve ever smelled before.”

“I knew there was something different about you,” says the human. “Color me impressed.”

“I’ll color you purple! It’s your code name, and you smell purple to me.” You sniff the air again, but there are too many damn odors mingling. No way to tell if any other humans are on the shuttle, or if it’s just Purple. “I’m fine with us calling each other ‘Legislacerator’ and ‘purple’, but since we’re going to be such good friends, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for us to exchange names?”

“Emily,” says Purple promptly. “My name is Emily Dickenson.”

You smile ruefully. “Like the poet?”

“You know her?”

“All good lawtrolls have a strong grounding in the classics.” That was a guess, actually, based on the fact Subject Red gave himself a poet-based alias as well. “We call her Troll Emily Dickenson, though.”

“Mmm.” Dickenson’ lips curl up into a smile. “And what will I call you?”

“Eventually, ‘oh god please stop hitting me I’ll tell you everything’.” You bare your long, sharp teeth at her. Humans have strange teeth- flat and stubby, barely sharp at all. “But for now, Redglare. Legislacerator Redglare.”

Her smile twitches. “You only have one name?”

“No, my legal first name is ‘Legislacerator’. I’m super-committed.” You lean back. “So how are we going to play this? You try to kill me, I try to kill you? I hate to remind you that we’re three thousand feet in the air, so unless you can fly, blowing this shuttle up might not be in your best interests.”

“I can fly,” says Purple calmly.

Oh. “No you can’t,” you say, hoping to call her bluff. You’re usually quite good at doing that, but Purple is very hard to read. You don’t think it’s just because she’s a human, either.

“I totally can! It’s great.” Purple’s nose wrinkles. “But no, I have no interest in a random act of wanton destruction. Every troll on this bus will die soon enough, I can be patient.”

“And why will they all die?” You ask.

“That would be telling. You’re an investigator, right? Investigate. Not that it will do you any good- you are not nearly powerful enough to stop one of us, let alone all four of us.”

You sigh. “I hate to admit it, but you’ve got a point. I saw what you did to those Ruffiannihilators, and it’s no mean feat. I’ve never even heard of your species, which means that we wiped your planet out some time ago. How the hell did we do that, if you guys are so powerful?”

Something strange happens. Emily’s back stiffens and her eyes become hard and cold in an instant. A snarl decorates the bottom of her face. “We’re the way we are because you destroyed our planet,” she says with a frightful amount of cruelty. “Now we’re going to do the same to you.”

“Hey, some new info!” You chuckle and sit back, terrified for your life. “What’s it going to cost me?"

“The life of every troll on this shuttle, including you.” Purple stands up, and so do you. One of her black sticks twirls out and points at you, but you dodge to the side, pressing yourself up against a Threshecutioner.

“Hostile xeno!” You shout as Emily shoots a beam of nothing through the heads of two trolls, a path of death that would have gone through your own thinkpan had you not moved. “Restrain her!”

As air rushes out of the hole in the biometal that the human tore open, two trolls push Purple against the wall and restrain her hands. With a growl, Emily shoots a pair of nothing beams through their heads, sending their corpses quivering to the ground. The blasts open two more holes in the bus, and finally someone manages to pull the emergency alarm.

“Driver, you need to set us down!” You scream, your natural loudness coming in handy. “Emergency landing, _now_!”

The unseen driver is spurred either by your shouts over the commotion or just plain common sense. He tilts the vehicle downwards and sends it to the ground. Not fast enough, though, at the rate Purple is burning her way through the shuttle.

There are three holes in the vacuum-sealed shuttle, and it’s only a matter of time before Purple shoots one downwards and hits a vital system. This thing would stop heading towards the ground and start plummeting towards it.

You need to do something. But you can’t get close to Emily Dickenson without losing your head. You like your head. It’s a bit bulbous and you can’t grow long hair, but overall, a pretty great cranium.

Trying to ignore the shriek of the emergency alarm, you plot your attack. Purple is blowing her way through everything separating the two of you, so you need to buy some time. There’s a confused smelling Swordsmassacrer whose leg you sweep. He yelps and stumbles into Purple, and this creates the blind spot you need to close the gap.

As the Swordsmassacrer falls with two gaping holes in his chest, you swing your cane out and jab it into Purple’s stomach. She gasps in shock and pain, pressing her back against the wall.

Her death needles come up for you, but you duck and dodge to the side. Your smelling is basically future-sight; you “see” things far quicker than those who use their eyes. Combining this with your lightning-fast reflexes and big, sexy brain, you’re basically invincible at close range.

Close range isn’t really an option here. If you could get Purple on the ground, you might have something to work with. Here, though, there are way too many variables in her favor. The trolls in the shuttle might be on your side, but they can’t possibly get past those weapons of hers. Worse, each one she kills also causes further damage to the ship, and a crash would be certain death for everyone but her.

Ducking a blast that takes three more trolls to the floor, you realize the only way to beat Purple: stun her. Get those weapons out of her hands. Restrain her.

You have just the thing.

You weave around and wait for your opening, then pull out the teacup in your sylladex. It’s stone cold at this point, but it’ll serve. You splash the contents in her face, and Dickenson recoils. “Is this...chamomile?” She asks. Most wouldn’t be able to hear her over the emergency klaxon, but you have some damned good hearing.

In lieu of answering, you grab both her wrists and twist. Dickenson drops her weapons involuntarily and snarls, the grey paint dripping off her wet face to reveal porcelain white skin beneath. One of her long legs comes and kicks you in the stomach. The force blows you back, but you stay on your feet. “Someone get those fucking murder sticks!” You shout.

“Do you think you’ve beaten me because you have my weapons?” Asks Emily Dickenson as a speedy little Spearmangler snatches them both up. “You’re clever, Legislacerator, but not quite as clever as you need to be to defeat me. I don’t use those wands because they’re my best defense. I use them because I enjoy and they kill cleanly. My other weapon is a bit...messier.”

There’s a trembling as Purple begins to shake. Her body convulses violently, and her tongue lolls out. You feel her shakes, they nearly rip her from your grasp. The white skin beneath starts to blacken to a deep, hopeless grey. Her purple eyes harden into black coals, then glow with a white energy.

A thick black aura begins to surround her, powerful tendrils snaking up and around her. “You’re fucked now,” she whispers. “You’re...F’YALUD VAS NE’GR!”

The tendrils shoot out and start slaughtering everyone. Blood, blood everywhere. You try to draw away, but Emily has regrabbed your hands and is holding you with immense strength. Strength she didn’t have before.

As she screams in an incoherent language, you feel something you haven’t felt in sweeps: fear. These “humans” are monsters unlike any you’ve ever seen.

And you’re going to die.

There’s a collision.

 

* * *

12TH BILUNAR PERIGREE OF THE FOURTH BRIGHT SEASON EQUINOX

???? HOURS

LOCATION UNKNOWN

Your nostrils flare open. The situation starts to put itself together.

Smoke. Twisted metal. Charred corpses. Boiling blood.

Void.

You slowly sit up and inspect your body for shrapnel, but other than a few tears in your outfit, you’re fine. The aura must have protected you.

The aura.

The human!

You wave your head around, smelling around for her, and you find her.

She’s fighting someone very fast. You can’t even get a good smell, this person is moving so quick. You catch whiffs of a cutlass skimming through the air, cutting tendrils of black aura down and keeping Dickenson at bay.

That’s impressive. You try to rise, but a hand stops you. “Don’t,” says a deep male voice. “Leave it to the captain.”

You sniff the air suspiciously. “Vaporized sopor, blood, sex...blueberries. You’re a Gamblignant.”

“I am.”

“And your captain is fighting the human.”

“She is.” You can hear the condescending humor in the Gamblignant’s voice.

“So that means...” Shit. You change the subject. “Where am I? How am I alive?”

“Driver managed to crash land on a rooftop, but the shuttle exploded on impact. Not sure how you survived. We were responding to the distress signal, captain said it looked like fun.” He sighs. “She’s the only one enjoying herself, though.”

“Is she winning, at least?” You thumb your nose. “I have dust and disintegrated troll in my nostrils.”

“It’s about even. Our reinforcements are about to arrive.”

You blanch. A troll facing a monster like Dickenson in an even fight? You can’t do that, and the list of trolls who are more badass than you is a short one indeed.

There’s only one person that this can be.

A Gamblignant dropship flies over head, and seven more of the blue-coated pirates leap out. With a hiss, Purple flails her tentacles at them, but all of them manage to beat the attack off.

Purple realizes that the tide of battle is turning against her, you think, because her tentacles then form a protective bulb around her. She then launches into the air, through two Gamblignants and away from the rooftop.

You gape as she speeds away. “Holy shit,” you breathe. “She _can_ fly.”

The Gamblignants walk over to you. “So she killed Shaula and Girtab on the way out?” Asks a familiar voice. “Ah well, they were both assholes. Speaking of assholes...”

You turn up to face the voice. “Hi Vriska,” you say wearily. “Thanks for saving my life.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Gamblignant First Class Vriska Serket smiles wide at you. “You’ll neeeeeeeever hear the end of this one, Pyrope.”

No, you really won’t.


End file.
